


I Keep Running Back to This Disease

by Lines_of_Pain_and_Glory



Category: Scrubs
Genre: M/M, POV Second Person, Smut, Unhealthy attitudes about kink and nonheteronormativeness in general, unhealthy BDSM relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-29
Updated: 2014-11-06
Packaged: 2018-02-10 21:28:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 4,731
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2040873
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lines_of_Pain_and_Glory/pseuds/Lines_of_Pain_and_Glory
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You read a study once, something about fear making guys extra horny.  It made sense, get the boys out doing their thing before you get killed.  Maybe Dr. Cox wasn’t literally a saber-toothed tiger and there wasn’t any biological advantage to getting really, really hard when he gave you that look, the one that’s somewhere between irate and homicidal, but for a while you managed to convince yourself that it was totally normal that the main reason you prayed each rant would be over soon was so you could get to a supply closet for a consult with Dr. Jerkoff.</p>
<p>Set around that punch from "My Cake."  The first chapter is JD/Janitor/JD's unrequited longing, but the rest is JD/Cox.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Substitute

Everybody figures it out eventually, everybody, but him anyway. Carla knows just like she knows everything else, but won’t say anything about it. She just looks at him and looks at you and shakes her head and mutters something that sounds a lot like “dysfunctional even for you two.” Turk knows too, that’s why he changes the subject when you talk about him, which is like every four seconds, so maybe that’s why, but you get the sinking feeling its mostly because he’s afraid you’ll tell him something he doesn’t want to know.

Of course, Jordan knows. You’ve been waiting for that shoe to drop ever since she didn’t end the whole tell everybody’s secrets thing with “I slept with him…and it was good, but don’t feel too jealous, Hon, he called me ‘Perry’…yeah, twice!” For some reason, known only to her, she decided to stop short of completely humiliating you in front of the entire hospital, but since it’s Jordan, you know she’s come up with something even more humiliating to do with that tidbit. You’ll never find out what her diabolical scheme was now though because even the Janitor knows. Forget “Scooter,” you’re going to be “Gay Doctor” from now until the ground opens up to swallow the puddle of shame you’ve become. Hurry up, stupid floor! Of all the ways he could have found out…

You read a study once, something about fear making guys extra horny. It made sense, get the boys out doing their thing before you get killed. Maybe Dr. Cox wasn’t literally a saber-toothed tiger and there wasn’t any biological advantage to getting really, really hard when he gave you that look, the one that’s somewhere between irate and homicidal, but for a while you managed to convince yourself that it was totally normal that the main reason you prayed each rant would be over soon was so you could get to a supply closet for a consult with Dr. Jerkoff.

You’d tried to ignore it at first, but that was no good. You just made more mistakes because you were distracted and more mistakes meant more rants and more rants meant more…distraction. So finally you’d given in and it had been amazing doing the nasty at work where someone just outside the door might hear you, only you’d never imagined that the someone outside that door might be the only person in the hospital who had a key to the deadbolt. If you had, you probably wouldn’t have been surprised the Janitor didn’t walk away and leave you alone, but you wouldn’t have expected him to slip in and lock the door again behind him. You can’t run away and you can’t cover, not with your scrubs around your ankles and your cock in your hand and his name still on your lips. Yes, his name. You don’t want to think about when you started doing this to him instead of just because of him.

You’re just staring stupidly, hoping against hope that this is just a really fucked-up daydream. You know it must be when he slides down beside you and replaces your hand with his own, so you try to relax into, but he twists your hair too hard and whispers insults and girls' names in your ear, and for a moment you believe it’s him and you shudder and gasp and come, spewing hot rivulets in between his fingers. 

He ruffles your hair after, with the dirty hand of course. 

“Tough break, Scooter,” he says quietly and then, with a rush of cold air from the door opening, he’s gone and you’re left absolutely sure that none of this is normal.


	2. Kiss

You fall over backwards when he punches you, not because of the punch itself, he didn’t punch you that hard. Later you’re kind of pissed about that. Did he think you couldn’t handle it or something? It was really his fault what happened next. If he’d hit you harder, so your eyes welled up and your nose bled, you would have been distracted, but instead you just sprawl on the floor staring up at him, confused and angry and scared. The angle where you fell is weird, so you end up having to stare around that anatomical area you try never to stare at, and then you realize that the angle isn’t that weird that you should have to stare around and the bottom falls out of your stomach. You’re shaking all over, but you still manage to stand up before you’ve even decided that’s a good idea and he still looks angry as hell, but at that moment you feel like you don’t have anything to lose.

It’s a good kiss, one of your best actually. No collision of teeth or noses, no badly timed dry mouth or vomiting or sudden visions of tooth decay. Just hands tangling in curly hair and tongue slipping easily between lips and hips pressed firmly enough together to make any denial useless. It’s so right, so perfect you don’t realize at first that he isn’t kissing you back. 

When you do realize it, you tell yourself it must be shock, you tell yourself he’ll catch up with you any second. When he doesn’t you feel sick. Of course, he doesn’t like you. Not only does he enjoy hurting you, he gets off on it, but five minutes ago you wouldn’t have believed that there was any way he might get off on you. You know what you’re going to do. The thought still makes you a little sick, but it doesn’t make you any less hard. You slowly curl back into yourself away from him. When you’re at what you hope is a good range you say it.

“You can hit me again now, if you want.” 

“That won’t be necessary, Newbie.” He brushes past you, just like normal, but it’s too late for that. You know you aren’t the only one who isn’t normal.


	3. Hug

You stay up until one am waiting for the pounding on your door, but when you finally hear it you don’t want to answer. You don’t want to talk about what happened and you sure as hell don’t want to go to some crappy out-of-the-way bar and drink about what happened because you don’t want to wake up naked in a hall and realize that you must have passed out there after your mentor/hero/surrogate father/lover threw you out.

When he tells you to open the fucking door you do it, out of habit more than anything else, like you’re one of Pavlov’s stupid dogs, and once the door is open you don’t have much control over the situation. By the time he has you pinned on your back on the couch you’re wishing you’d gone to a bar. This would have been easier if you were drunk first. You don’t suggest it. You can tell he’s already done the whole drinking thing.

“Here’s how we’re going to do this.” He tells you as his fingers fumble with the drawstrings of your pajama pants. At this rate, it looks like you’re going to get to keep the top. You’re glad you didn’t wear your footy ones. You’d get cold. You know that isn’t what you’re supposed to be thinking about, not when you’re about to get that other thing you’ve always wanted from him, the one that isn’t a hug, but if you pay attention to his hot breath on your neck and his thumbs sliding the waistband down your hips, you’ll jump the gun and he’ll laugh at you and it will all be over. “You will speak only when spoken to,” he tells you as the fabric pools around your ankles, “you’re going to look me in the eye and you’re going to call me Dr. Cox when you come.” 

You flinch when he first touches you. You can see in his eyes you’re going to pay for that, but it feels so good you don’t care. “Yes, Dr. Cox.” You’d rather be safe than sorry

He has perfect hands for a doctor, strong and gentle at all the right times, you want to tell him that and about a billion other things, half of which involve the words “I love you,” but you settle for moaning and bucking your hips in time with his strokes. You can already feel the orgasm coiling in your belly. You know he must feel it too because he stops. Bastard! You’re not going to beg if that’s what he thinks.

“Something wrong, Sarah?” He pulls back wearing that mock concerned expression and you know if anyone would enjoy leaving you high and dry it would be him.

“Please, don’t stop, Dr. Cox, please!” You beg and he laughs against your neck, but he doesn’t, not until you’re raw and spent and mewling pitifully for him to stop.  
Then he lets you sit up and you start to feel uncomfortable and not just because you’re sticky and kind of cold down under. “Do you want me to…you know…” You gesture vaguely.

“Well, I would, Newbie, but knowing you, you’d probably manage to screw even that up.”

“Yeah, you’re probably right,” you agree, looking away, “I haven’t really done this with that many guys,” or any guys really, but you don’t want to look like a total loser…

“Oh, and you think I have?” He explodes at you. You try to say you didn’t mean it like that, but he’s already on top of you again trying to pummel you and hump you at the same time. The two aren’t very compatible, so eventually he settles on just chocking you and grinding into your leg. Your lungs burn, your ears ring, and you’re pretty sure you’re never going to be able to swallow again, but you don’t fight back even when the dark spots grow in front of your eyes. It’s worth it, even if he kills you, it’s worth it.

You’re barely conscious when it happens, but you think he lets you breathe when he comes, because you feel one of his hands on the erection you didn’t know you still had, because you feel his tongue on what must be the bruises he left on your neck, because you can hear another set of ragged breaths as he says he’s sorry, as you feel the throbbing followed by warm slipperiness against your thigh. You wouldn’t believe him, except that you’re pretty sure he didn’t think you could hear. You pretend you don’t feel it when he holds you, but you do and it’s everything you hoped it would be. That’s when you realize how sick you really are, when it still makes you feel safe falling asleep in his arms.


	4. Pet

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Back by popular demand, I guess. :) Hopefully I haven't lost my "JD voice."

You oversleep on the couch. He’s already long gone by the time you wake up and you’re even later than you would have been to work because it’s not really turtleneck weather and the crusty old concealer Elliot left behind in your bathroom doesn’t match your skin at all and you don’t want to try to explain to everyone why it looks like someone tried to choke you…because someone totally did, but it was dreamy! You have a problem. 

He just dumps a stack of charts in your arms and then ignores you and everyone else is still giving you sympathetic “so how are you holding up with the whole dead dad thing?” kinds of looks. You paste on a smile and pretend you’re doing ok even though you’re not. You just randomly started crying in the middle of trying to figure out if you were more of a “nude beige” or a “buff beige” because you realized you’re never going to have to (have to? get to? Be able to even if you wanted? There we go.) come out to your dad and now you can never go to that Rite-Aid again because you’re pretty sure the cashier thought you were a victim of domestic violence. Are you? If…if you’re in an abusive relationship, that means you must be in a relationship…with Dr. Cox! You really have a problem.

You don’t want to think about any of that. You just want everything to be the way it was, to be normal, but it isn’t normal unless he calls you Betsy and rants about how you need to spend less time doing your hair in the morning when you’re late. After four years you know what his buttons are, so you push them all, like a little kid in an elevator punching every floor, until you get a reaction.

He shoves you ahead of him into an empty room, slamming the door behind the two of you. “It’s almost like you enjoy it when I pull your pigtails, Sadie. Are you trying to annoy me?”

“No, yes, maybe?” You squeak a little. Smooth, J.D.

“It’s working.” His voice gets all rough and needy and hot. 

“Ouch, ouch…oh!” You finally get that he’s dragging your head down by one ear and pushing his scrubs down his thighs because he wants you to get on your knees and that’s where you end up at the thought, all weak and woozy, confronted with his very big, very hard cock. You lick your lips nervously. You should have practiced. You should have bought bananas. Bananas are delicious. You could go for a banana smoothie right now…ha!

“Oh, you had really better not be laughing, Newbie.” He looks like he’s thinking about dragging you back up so he can punch you again.

“Banana smoothie!”

Whatever tirade he was about to launch into just turns into a guttural moan when you lick him experimentally, base to tip like an ice cream cone.

He growls. “You are such a little tease.”

You guess you didn’t have to worry about your technique. He grabs you roughly by the hair with both hands and just goes to town, not even slowing down when you gag. You just keep swallowing around him, trying to get air and not throw up, as he thrusts more frantically into your throat, cursing.  
It doesn’t taste anything like bananas, but you choke it down anyway and suck him clean because he still has a death grip on your hair as he slumps back against the wall and letting it ooze out of the corners of your mouth doesn’t seem very sexy.

“Good, Newbie.” He pets your hair absently like you’re a golden retriever sitting at his feet. 

That’s kinky. Would he let you sleep at the foot of his bed and play fetch with you? Probably not.

“Can I hump your leg?” You really need to work on the whole blurting out stuff that pops into your head thing.

“Well, I’m not the kind of guy who’d leave a lady unsatisfied. Come here, Kelly.” He doesn’t sound mad. Kelly can totally be a boy’s name too.

After a lot of awkward fumbling around you manage to get into a position that feels good. He gets way more into it than you expect, grabbing your ass and pinching your nipples and calling you a naughty girl and this time you do humiliate yourself in a few quick, whimpering thrusts.

“Just can’t control yourself around me, can you, Lisa? I’m coming over again tonight, so you might want to think about getting out that pillow you call ‘Hugh Jackman’ and rubbing out the easy one, m’kay?” He chuckles as he walks away and your face burns with shame as you stand there trying to figure out how you’re going to hide the big wet stain spreading over the front of your pants until you can find a new pair.


	5. Psychopath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And now for a POV shift interlude

You let it go too far. You don’t realize it until you’re asking Barbie what he’s like post-game. Granted it’s mid-rant, granted she clearly doesn’t think you’re being anything other than maximally tacky to prove just how much you don’t care about Clarissa and her problems, but in no way does that negate the fact that you’re standing in admissions yelling inquiries about what it’s like screwing Newbie. Not everyone is as clueless as Blondie. Carla and Jumpsuit, oh hell, even the regular patients are giving you looks that say morbid curiosity’s worn a little thin. 

Yeah, you want him. You want his stupid, girly, hero-worshipping ass in a way that can-nawt be normal. You’ve always thought he was gay. Actually, you thought he was with Gandhi, and yeah, you were secretly relieved when Meathead started going after Carla. You knew this was going to happen, granted you’d hoped you were misreading the signs, but, of course, you hadn’t. You’re never wrong. That’s just part of being Perry Cox.

It takes self-control you didn’t know you had not to throw him back down on the floor and get it over with right there in the doctors’ lounge because you know you could probably get away with it. You can get away with a lot when people think you’re a psychopath. You got away with it that time you showed up at Kelso’s door, hammered out of your mind. When instead of Bob-o you got Harrison, because he’d gotten his ass kicked out of West Point for…you can’t remember…having fun of some sort you assume. Granted that was probably a low point in your relationship with Belzebob, but if you hadn’t banged his kid it would have been something else. Oh, the look on his face, best sex ever, and of course, he’d never said a word about it. Hell, you got away with it the night before your wedding. Turns out the secret to beating Ben at gay chicken was a gallon of cheap tequila and having his bratty little sister walk in on you in bed together the morning after.

Point is, you could have and you didn’t. That’s got to count for something, but it’s only a matter of when after that, not if. You’re going to take advantage of him, all confused and lost with those big sad eyes.

“Love you.” He whispers, legs wrapped around your neck, body wrapped around your dick, so fucking tight and hot and good.

“I’m not your boyfriend, Laura.” You’re married. Even if you weren’t…you don’t do that. You do this, but you don’t do that. You don’t do that even with women.

*************************

“Hey, where do you think you’re going?” The she-devil asks. 

“Oh, did you not get the memo? I drew the short straw for ‘console Jennifer’ duty.”

She glances up from her magazine. “You know it isn’t the lying that hurts, it’s the total lack of effort you put into coming up with something even remotely plausible.”

“Fine, I’m having an affair.”

She rolls her eyes. “That’s better. Now I don’t believe you and I have an excuse to never have sex with you again.”

“I would literally, and I don’t know how I can make this any clearer for your tiny, evil reptilian brain, rather put my dick in a blender.”

“That’s not what…oh, that was what you said about two years ago. M’kay, have fun, love you…just kidding, not really, wouldn’t it be weird if we were like that?” She turns back to the magazine.

*************************

“You’re just a cheap fuck.” You can let go then, burying yourself deep inside him, grunting with relief.

The hurt in those big, blue eyes makes your chest feel so fucking tight and hot and…

“Say it.” You wrap your fist just as tight around him. “Tell me what you are.”

His eyes go dull before they flutter shut and his voice is just as flat. “I’m a cheap fuck.”

“You’re a whore.” You growl, shoving your fingers into him to replace your cock, working his dick hard. “You fucked my wife.”

He squirms in your grasp, making those little mewling noises that shouldn’t be a turn on. “I was thinking about you. I didn’t even know…and I was thinking about you.”

Jesus fucking Christ… Even as he comes into your fist, you know you’re going to need a round two tonight.

You have it alone in the shower…because you’re not a psychopath. You can’t keep doing this.

 

And you can’t stop.

“Please…” Those pouty lips look like they were literally made for sucking cock. “I’m not going to tell anyone, if that’s what you’re afraid of.”

You give him bruises, some in places where they’ll be hard to hide and some in places where they’ll be harder to explain, to remind him. You’re not afraid of anything.


	6. Name

You do jerk off that evening…more than once. You can’t help it with nothing to do but wait, excited and kind of terrified, imagining what he might do to you.

He’s pretty drunk again when he finally shows up, but you actually make it all the way into the bedroom tonight.

“Aw, Pricilla, did’ya hide your unicorn collection just for me?” 

“No.” You wouldn’t call two a “collection,” unless he’s talking about your My Little Ponies? Nah, that’s totally different…but you did hide them.

You distract him. You’re getting pretty good at that. You bought bananas on the way home…and condoms…and lots of lube.

“What, couldn’t find any pink glittery ones?” But you can tell he couldn’t care less if the thing you’re rolling over his dick with your tongue is purple.

You’re still all slippery and a little loose from messing around earlier and his fingers slide into you easily. “You’re already wet for me, you little slut.”

You squeal in a less than dignified manner as he finds…well, now you’re never going to be able to give another prostate exam without blushing, like you weren’t already uncomfortable enough about it before you knew it could feel like that!

It still hurts…a lot. It’s a good kind of hurt though, like his teeth biting into your shoulder, a slow burn as he slides carefully into you, not because he’s worried about hurting you, but because he’s trying not to come. That thought keeps you painfully hard, brushing against his stomach.

“God, you’re fucking tight, Bettie.”

“Yeah? You like that?” You wrap your legs around him, pulling him in, moaning with the mix of pain and pleasure.

“Jesus!” His nails dig hard into your hips, as he loses control, thrusting all the way into you. “Fuck! J.D.!”

You nearly come without being touched. He said your name…he said your name in bed!

“Love you.” The words tumble out before you can stop them as he slams into your prostate again.

He growls low in his throat. “I’m not your boyfriend, Laura. You’re just a cheap fuck.”

He fucks you hard into the mattress like he needs to prove it to himself. “Say it. Tell me what you are.”

The humiliation burns on your cheeks. “I’m a cheap fuck.” Yeah, you knew that…on some level you knew he was just using you and you’re still getting off on it.

“You’re a whore.” You want to scream with relief as he finally strokes your dick. “You slept with my wife.”

And it was nothing compared to this. You writhe, trying to thrust up into his fist and down onto his fingers at the same time, the pleasure overwhelming any filters left between your brain and your mouth. “I was thinking about you. I didn’t even know…and I was thinking about you.”

He curses softly, stroking you through your climax.

If he doesn’t want to be your boyfriend, why’s he kissing you like that, sweet and lazy, why’s he still wrapped around you, warm and safe feeling?

“You should go. I think you should go.” You can hear it in your head, all chilly and indifferent sounding. You should say it. You should say it, but you don’t.


	7. Fucked

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So this one's short and not smutty [ I apologize ;) ] and POV switched again

“I should go.” You should have never been here in the first place. 

“You should stay.”

You just shake your head, getting up unsteadily. 

He looks like he’s going to cry, curled up in a ball.

“I swear to god, Margret, I will give you something to cry about…” Why’s he giving you that shit eating grin now?

“Just can’t control yourself around me, can you?”

Not true. You slam your fist into the wall instead.

“We can’t do this.” You can’t end up in his bed whenever you two have time off (and Carla and Meathead don’t). He can’t cut you off mid-rant with his tongue in your mouth and blow you at work.

For Christ’s sake, you have a kid, a kid you don’t want to be sucking off his boss in a supply closet twenty years from now because daddy wasn’t around because mommy really hates the taste of her own medicine.

“Please? I don’t want to be alone right now.” He should have thought about that before he, out of six billion morons on this planet he could have had a crush on, out of all the people he should have turned to in this moment, decided to go with you instead. 

“People die, Janet. I’d think in this profession you might have gotten that through your pretty little head by now.”

“Cut the crap.” He surges up from the bed backing you into a literal corner. “I’m not buying it. You care about me!” It sounds like an accusation.

“Yeah.” You pull your t-shirt over your head so he won’t be able to see your face. “That’s why we can’t do this.” He’s still standing in your way. “Do you mind? I’m supposed to be picking my son up from daycare.”

He stares at you all wide-eyed, hair sticking up at odd angles.

“Fuck.” He falls back, sitting down hard on the bed, hands covering his face. “Fuck…”

Yeah, that pretty well sums up your situation.


	8. Normal

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is it, the last chapter. Comments, positive and negative, are always much appreciated. I want to say a huge thank you to everyone who’s been following this story. I never would have finished it if not for you. I was completely blown away by the amount of response to this old thing I’d just had sitting around for ages. Also, title inspiration credit goes to Caitlin Crosby's “Still Have My Heart.” Ok, I think that was everything I wanted to say. :)

You didn’t have anything to lose, but he did. You forgot that somehow. You guess love is blind or something.

Now there’s this hot, sick ball of guilt in your stomach when she looks at you with slightly narrowed eyes.

“What’s wrong with D.J.?”

“Where, oh, where should I start?” He answers for you with a glare from behind her back that says, “If you blow this, I will make you wish you were dead.”

“Oh, that’s right.” She snaps her fingers. “I didn’t care.”

And the hot, sick ball starts to feel more like anger because you’re pretty sure she’s never loved anyone the way you love him.

 

“What is wrong with me?” You demand. Why, no matter how hard you try, are you never, ever, fucking, good enough for him? Does it have something to do with the fact that, no matter what names he calls you, you still have a dick? Because he never seemed to have a problem with that while he was blowing you.

You’re right back where you started: pushing him, hoping something will break. This time it does, but it isn’t what you wanted.

“Nothing.” He admits through gritted teeth. His shoulders slump and he looks away. That’s as close as you ever get to an apology: it’s not you, it’s me.

“That’s not fair.”

“Life’s not fair, Cassandra.” He snaps and you can tell he wants to kiss you until it doesn’t feel that way.

 

If anything he yells at you more than he used to. It’s just that when he’s bellowing at you at the top of his lungs with that vein throbbing in his forehead, you know it’s because he wants to be fucking you…and you end up back in the supply closet.

Someone slides a note under the door that says “Bleach?” with a little smiley face and you freak-out and run as soon as you can get your pants up, but all day you keep taking it out of your pocket and staring at it for a really long time. It’s like now you live in everything is backwards world, where the Janitor is trying to be _nice_ in the scariest ways possible and Perry is secretly in love with _you_.

It’s the new normal.

You know he loves you.

That’s how it always was with your dad too: he was usually never around when you needed him…but you know, in his own screwed up way, he loved you.


End file.
